Obsessions
by Have a little Faithe
Summary: Kreachers little obsessions. WARNING: HBP spoilers


_**Obsessions**_

"Mistress would be proud, she would. Kreacher is good to his mistress. Good…good."

The small, skeletal hands of Kreacher reached up onto a high shelf in the Black kitchen, his long fingers curling around the handle of a large, chipped tea-cup. He brought it down in front of him, his eyes gleaming with pride.

"Yes, yes. Kreacher will do as his mistress wishes."

His usual hoarse, croaky voice came out in a soft croon, as he held the tea-cup tight in his hands, stroking the side softly. He shuffled slowly, with drive, to the small table in the middle of the room. He lifted up onto his tip-toes to place the tea-cup on the table, then shuffled back to the counter.

"Nasty blood traitors won't know what happened, until they find their dear little brats dead in their beds."

His pressed his fingertips together, and a soft squeal of glee came from his throat.

"What a good elf Kreacher is. Those nasty traitors won't get Kreacher, no. The tall old one says I must live with the Potter brat, but oh no. Kreacher hears that he is dead. Dead, dead, dead."

He then hopped onto a small stool standing beside the counter, the word emphasized with every hop. Kreacher reached up into the cupboard again, taking down a large black tea-pot, and placing it on the counter.

"As dead as they shall be, oh yes."

Kreacher snapped his fingers and instantly the teapot began to whistle, steam rising from its black spout. He waved a hand over it, and it stopped, steam still rising as he picked it up and carried it carefully down the stool and to the table. He looked into the pot, taking a careful look at the contents. His long, gnarled fingers then reached into his filthy loincloth, and pulled out a small flower, light blue, and dainty in his old, greying fleshy hand. He then, with sudden anger, ripped the flower into bits, the petals falling gracefully into the tea-pot. As they hit the tea, the petals turned a ferocious, deep purple, then black, and a puff of smoke rose from the pot. Kreacher admired his handy-work, unlike what he had ever done before. He clapped his hand together, and his eyes became mere slits on his grey and wrinkled face.

"Kreacher shall show them. He's no stupid elf. No, no. Now that stupid traitor of a son is gone, Kreacher is free to do what he pleases. Potter brat and blood traitor friends are not his master. No, no. I have but one."

Kreacher slowly shuffled into the front hall of the great, old house. The portrait of Sirius's mother still hung, though her painting was sitting in a chair, dozing off, snoring softly. Kreacher looked up in pure admiration, his grey eyes wide. Suddenly, they began filling with tears, and Kreacher stomped his foot to the ground.

'Not fair! Not fair, it is! My mistress, oh how she'd weep to find these filthy traitors again in her home. How she'd be so angry! And Kreacher, just sitting around letting them run amuck in her house? Never…never…"

He bent his head down, his fingers intertwined together, twitching violently. He muttered more under his breath, pacing before the portrait. A light at the top of the stairs came on, and Kreacher jumped, scurrying towards the kitchen again. He stood, panting, in the middle of the kitchen, as footsteps neared.

"Kreacher is not ready…no…but."

He smiled widely, a look of sheer insanity upon his face.

"Kreacher can do it. They will come to Kreacher. It's their own fault. Nasty brats can't resist tea, can they. No, no, selfish traitors."

And with that, he snapped his fingers and disappeared in a loud crack.

CLUNK. THUD. Thud.

The small nest of rags and cloths still surrounded Kreacher, in his small room. He sat, rocking back and forth, holding onto a broken picture frame. He was muttering quickly, low in his throat. His ears suddenly picked up a sound, and he stopped. He stopped all movement, except for his large ears tilting forward, and his eyes quivering slightly, round and shining. He sat in complete silence, for a good 20 minutes he sat, still as ever. When the first ray of light shone through the crack in his door did he emerge. His fingers curled around the door, and it creaked open, letting the light spill onto his face. He had left the curtain open, its windows still grimy, yet the light shone so brightly through it, contrasting greatly with the darkness within. He crept out of his room, shutting the door behind him, and creeping over to the kitchen table. He stopped, and smiled. He padded softly over to a large lump on the floor, he then kicked it, and it rolled onto its side. The dead form of Hermione Granger lay motionless on the floor, a tea-cup lay, cracked, beside her, the contents spilled over her body. Kreacher smiled widely, his rotten teeth showing.

"Mudblood. Kreacher killed the little Mudblood. Nasty, nasty. Oh my mistress, she shall be proud."

Kreacher then walked past the body, making sure to kick it hard when he passed, into the hall again. He walked, steadily, with no increase in speed, no falter in his step, up the stairs. He then stopped at the end of the hall.

"Nasty brats think they can stay here. Oh, little children, shouldn't you be in school? No, no, they are not going back. They are finding ways to defeat the Dark Lord. Yes, we shall hide with old Kreacher. He shall be safe. Stupid Kreacher, they thinks. They thinks, oh-ho-ho, they wrong."

He slowed his pace when he reached the door that led to a bedroom. Kreacher slowly opened it, the door creaking slightly. Kreacher stopped, hearing a snort and a grumble from within the room.

"Disgusting blood traitor. You shall be next. No mummy to shoo Kreacher off. No, no."

FLOP. Struggle. Silence.

Kreacher stepped away from the bed, looking down at a large pillow that covered the face of Ronald Weasley. Kreacher reached over and pulled the pillow off, looking down into his face, which was twisted in a look of terror and pain. Kreacher grinned and chuckled maliciously. He hopped down from the bed, and dropped the pillow to the floor. He walked slowly out of the room, closing the door behind him. He made his way down the hall further, careful not to make a sound. The next door was easier to open, and he crept in, unnoticed. The sleeping figure in the bed lay still, and Kreacher moved swiftly to its side.

"Oh, pretty one. No more Dumbledore, no more Sirius traitor. No more for the boy who lived."

SWISH. Gasp.

A knife protruded from the throat of Harry Potter, and he lay, as still as he was moments before, his eyes wide open and staring, the gleam slowly draining from them. Kreacher's eyes, though, gleamed with happiness, and he grabbed a hold of the knife, pulling it out with a sickening squelching sound. His breathing was rapid, and he quivered at the sight of the blood, now pouring endlessly from Harry's neck, staining the sheets and dripping onto the floor. The stain spread, across the pillow and to the corner, where Kreacher stood. He looked down to the floor, the blood now flowing towards him, reaching his winkled feet and covering their bottoms. He smiled, and bent down, running a finger along the floor. He looked at the blood carefully.

"How easily this is spilt, it is. And how easily it is wiped away."

He wiped the blood onto his loincloth, and then placed both hands onto the floor, dipping them into the stick red mess that was growing ever so quickly. Kreacher then walked, leaving a trail of blood behind him, out of the room.

"Kreacher has don it, mistress! Yes, Kreacher has killed his master."

He spit onto the ground as he said this, then looked up at the portrait in the hall.

"Kreacher now moves to where he is needed. The boy. Oh, the boy I do want."

CRACK. Kreacher vanished from the Black home, never to return. But he ended up in a surprising place. At another bedside. This bed was no covered in blood, but the sheets were crimson, and silk. He moved slowly from the end of the bed where he arrived, to the side, where a blonde head lay, contrasting with the red of the pillow beneath it. The soft skin of the owner was ivory, pale as the moon outside the large window. Kreacher looked at it admiringly. He then touched the cheek of the sleeper. A red dot appeared on his cheek from the blood that covered Kreachers hands. Kreacher pulled a hand away, and looked at it in surprise. It blended so beautifully with the lily-white skin of the boy who slept there. Kreacher admired it for a moment. He then placed a hand on the cheek, the blood now dripping off the boy's face. The boy awoke with this, and stared into the bulging eyes of Kreature.

Draco Malfoy screamed, loudly, piercingly. Kreacher jumped, and covered his mouth, Harry's blood seeping onto his lips. Draco looked downd disgustedly at him, tasting the blood and closing his eyes, which has tears erupting from them.

"Shh, shh…Kreature is here. Be quiet boy! Please…Kreature just wants to…be…here"

Kreacher struggled with Draco for a moment, and Kreacher looked angrily into his face. Suddenly, he squeezed his hand and whipped it to the side, Draco's neck snapping loudly. Kreacher watched as Draco slowly stopped moving, his eyes still closed, his head falling back onto the pillow. He smiled slightly and took his hand from his mouth, a red imprint still on his face, blood dripping from his cheek. Kreacher moved in closer, and tenderly touched his chin.

"Now Kreacher will be with you forever. My mistress, she would be proud. See now…shh, boy. No more sounds. Kreacher is alright."

The small body of the house-elf snuggled up closely to Draco, Kreacher taking Draco's arm and wrapping it around himself, his head just touching the blood chin of the small boy next to him.

"No more. Kreacher gets what he likes. No more Dumbly, no more traitor son. No more Muddy-blood. No more blood traitor brat and his Potter friend. Boy Who Lived."

Kreacher scoffed, and closed his eyes.

"Just Kreacher and his master. His master, so fair. Mistress would be so happy."


End file.
